4 Magister Mundi Sum
by giannimartelli
Summary: The remaining integrity of the Borgia regime crumbles as Cesare recovers from poisoning in the countryside; he returns to Roma with his favorite servant to reclaim the city, but finds himself on the wrong end of the deal.


**I. La Campagna Romana. 1503.**

"I swear it, Sibrand, upon my life. There is an _animal_ in my room at night."

Sibrand sighed wearily, pouring another cup of wine for his master. Their stay at the inn had done well for Cesare's physical health- he was no longer so weak, the effects of the poison having left his body- but now, either the illness or cabin fever had begun to stir up strange imaginings. The knight settled himself into a creaking wooden chair and looked across the table at the other man. "_Ja_, so you have said," he replied, "but I have yet to see or hear this animal. It is not that I disbelieve you; it is only that I wonder, might you have... _imagined_, or perhaps dreamed-"

"I have done no such thing!" Cesare countered, snatching his cup away and drinking deeply from it. "Do you think me mad or just stupid, Sibrand?"

"Neither one, Master," Sibrand murmured. "You are still sick from _la cantarella_; I wonder if it may be affecting your sleep or your mind in some other way, perhaps."

Cesare grimaced, looking into his wine cup and leaning back in his seat. "So you do think me mad," he said. "I see. Why, then, do you stay here with a madman? Certainly there are more... auspicious things you could be doing with your precious time."

Grunting softly under his breath, Sibrand rested his muscular arms on the cracked wooden tabletop. Of what concern was time to him? True, he was certain that he had not been granted immortality, and still the fear of death was enough to paralyze him at times, but to what could he turn if not the service of his master? He cleared his throat, pushing back the sudden sense of dread that welled within him. "What do you take me for? You are my Master, and as such I remain your loyal servant."

"Hm," Cesare grunted, and there was a finality to the sound that silenced Sibrand for over a minute.

It was the truth: the longer Sibrand lived in this strange time and stranger place, the less he cared for anything unrelated to the service of his General; all else seemed trivial, insignificant. There was no other service, no other place, no other time in which he wished to find himself.

Finally he sighed and drained his cup.

"I will come tonight to your room," he said, "and I will look for this... beast." He paused momentarily, and in the brief silence Cesare began to say something, but Sibrand spoke over him. "I have missed you, and it seems as good a reason as any to lie with you tonight. It has been some time, has it not?"

Cesare sighed. "Very well," he said. "I am not as mad as you think, you will see."

**II. La Campagna Romana. 1503.**

Cesare gritted his teeth, gripping the pillow tightly and straining his ear in the silence of midnight.

The sounds had not returned- it was as if the creature, whatever it was, had made up its mind to prove him a madman.

Perhaps he had been hallucinating. Perhaps Sibrand was right; perhaps _la cantarella_ had crept out of the fibers of his muscles and into the creases of his mind to render him stupid and crazy as well as powerless.

His stomach turned as footfalls approached the door, and he muttered soft oaths under his breath as the door squealed open.

"It is I," Sibrand said.

Cesare scowled at the faint outline of his form in the darkness. "It is useless," he snapped. "You are right, Sibrand. There is no such animal. I have made it up."

Sibrand closed the door behind himself as he entered the room, his bare feet shuffling on the chilly floor. "Need I an excuse to worship at the feet of my Master?" he asked with a quiet chuckle.

"You have come to make fun of me," Cesare said irritably, even petulantly. "I do not like this, and I do not like you."

With a patient smile, Sibrand sat at Cesare's side. "I would do no such thing."

Cesare grimaced. "Why, then, are you here?"

"I made a promise," said Sibrand quietly, pushing back the bedcovers. "I mean only to keep it, Master."

Cesare sighed. "Very well," he said, watching as Sibrand settled himself into the bed. "You do afford me some comfort, at least... as well as warmth."

The knight smiled, resting his splinted arm on Cesare's side. "Good. I am glad to hear it," he murmured, pressing his lips softly against his master's forehead. "I am here to serve you."

A laugh, faintly warm and genuinely amused, bled from Cesare's lips as he was forcibly nestled against Sibrand's chest. "You believe that I should have more faith in you," he said.

"I believe that you have faith in no one," Sibrand replied. "This may be wise, given..." He paused, suddenly finding his mouth dry. He had intended to continue speaking, but the words seemed to have lost themselves; he felt it would hardly be appropriate to bring out old ghosts, particularly those that seemed still to haunt his master.

He had been a fearless man, strong and without any timidity, but he was changed now, different since his father's betrayal- somehow, he seemed to have lost a sense of immortality. Still, though, he was possessed of a ruthless temperament and Sibrand feared for his own safety, should he find himself anywhere but Cesare's rather narrow good side.

"_Given_...?" Cesare pressed, his voice little more than a rough purr, sounding somehow like a candle being extinguished.

Sibrand swallowed, suddenly feeling too heavy to move. "_Nothing_," he said faintly.

"You think I am thin-skinned? You believe that I cannot handle whatever it is-"

"Your father," Sibrand said quickly. "I believe your lack of faith is justified, Master; you have been betrayed by one-"

Cesare cut him off with a harsh laugh. "That will do, Sibrand. You can stop talking; I am no longer listening."

Cringing as if he had been stricken, Sibrand began to pull his arm from Cesare's side, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his tricep.

"I said only to stop _talking_," Cesare muttered. "You speak too often and far too much. I do not plan to let you out of my bed so easily, however. It has been too long."

Sibrand felt his cheeks warm, and bit his tongue to keep from speaking; indeed, it took every effort not to break the silence as Cesare nudged him onto his back and pushed his nightshirt over his hips.

"I miss your habit of sleeping without all of... _this_," said Cesare, tugging at the tails of the long linen _guardacuore_. "Take it off."

Wordlessly, Sibrand sat up to pull off the nightshirt; as he did so, twin gold-green flashes entered through the open window. Cesare started and gestured wildly as the animal approached the bed, and the bright eyes disappeared into the darkness of the room just as Sibrand tossed the _guardacuore_ to the foot of the bed.

"I told you, Sibrand! I told you that there was such an animal in my room," Cesare snapped, "and you did not look, you did not see-"

"Listen!" Sibrand said, holding up a hand to hush the other man.

Cesare scowled, his eyes narrowing as he opened his mouth to speak, but in the silence, a faint squeaking caught his ear.

"A bat, perhaps?" asked Sibrand, and Cesare glared at him.

"I believe I would have found _flight_ pertinent," he growled.

Sibrand sighed heavily. "Very well! Where did it go, then?"

The squeaking continued, and Cesare shook his head. "Beneath the bed, perhaps."

With little more than a nod, Sibrand knelt beside the bed and pulled up the heavy covers from the floor.

It was all he could do not to laugh as he peered beneath the wooden bedframe. He took a moment to compose himself, and then another moment, and finally, with tears of restrained laughter prickling his eyes, he reached under the bed and pulled out a tiny mass of mewling, squirming black fur, which he placed on the bed beside his master.

Cesare frowned, taking the kitten in his hand. Its blue-grey eyes flashed brightly in the moonlight that spilled through the window, and its fluffy black body writhed in his palm. Finally it began to purr as Cesare stroked its head with a finger, staring at it with some mixture of irritation and amusement.

Sibrand chuckled, sighing with mild relief as Cesare set the kitten down again on the bed. "There... that is your beast."

**III. La Campagna Romana. 1503.**

"My Lord-"

"_Cazzo_!" Cesare barked. "You come all this way to bear me distasteful news that I have already heard? What use are you!"

Miguel cringed, self-consciously clutching his cup tightly against his chest; blood-red wine sloshed out of it onto his cassock, but he paid no mind. "I apologize, my Lord; I did not mean to offend- I only meant to... well... we might _plan_-"

"That _pezzo di merda_ will interfere with any plan your feeble little mind could spit out," Cesare countered, and Sibrand grunted irritably at his side.

"Perhaps you had better go," said the German slowly, noting with some satisfaction the fear with which Miguel regarded the pair of them.

"I mean no offense," he repeated as Cesare advanced on him. Suddenly Cesare's hand wrapped around the barrel of his pistol and took it from the tabletop; he brandished the pistol as if to strike the other man with the butt of it, and Miguel cowered in the corner, dropping his wine cup to shield his face. "Please, my Lord! I come with a plan of attack," he cried.

He had expected Cesare to be angry. After his father's death, the new Pope had proved somewhat sympathetic; he had named Cesare _Gonfaloniere_, and Cesare had remained at the inn to recuperate; now Pope Pius III was dead, just ten days after his coronation, and another had been elected, this one more fearsome, more ruthless, and more antagonistic to the Borgia than any other Cardinal could have been.

Cesare threw down the pistol, and it skidded across the tabletop before Sibrand stopped it at the edge. "He is a duplicitous bastard-"

"I know this as well as you, my Lord," Miguel said, stooping to gather up the fallen cup. "I may know it better. You must hear me: dirty dealings have taken place in Roma, dealings that... that may be to our advantage, with the correct manipulation-"

"How so?" Cesare asked, wearily leaning on the table; Sibrand pulled out a chair for him and helped him into it, then refilled his wine cup.

Miguel cleared his throat, averting his eyes from Cesare's. "The Pope built his candidature upon, ah... falsified information," he said nervously. "That is, it was said that he had the support of someone who would give no such thing-"

"Speak, dog, or hold your tongue," said Sibrand, pushing a chair toward the _condottiero_. "And sit. Your shaking is off-putting."

A moment's pause allowed Miguel to clear his throat once more; he sat heavily, his face turning a sickly color as he spoke. "My Lord... the word, such as it is, says that you supported Pope Julius."

Sibrand winced, watching Cesare's jaw tighten; his fists curled tightly and his shoulders shook with rage. "Master, I am certain-"

"_Silence_!" Cesare snapped. "Miguel, have you come _solely_ to anger me? You have been successful!"

Miguel shuddered, forcing himself to meet Cesare's eyes. "No. Not at all, my Lord. I believe that we may use this to our advantage. Given that your name has been used in Julius' campaign, he should only be willing to assist us, if he knows what is best."

There was a silence, filled only by an irritable sigh from Cesare; he took up his pistol once again and took pleasure in the flinch that contorted Miguel's face, then set the firearm in his lap. "_Continue_."

**IV. Roma. 1503.**

Miguel had warned them that what remained of the Borgia forces had crumbled; it was with this caution in mind that Cesare and Sibrand rode to the gates of Roma.

For much of the journey, they rode in relative quiet, each speaking occasionally to their horse; finally Cesare cleared his throat and pulled back on the reins of his horse to ride beside the knight, who smiled slightly at him and kept in his course.

"Sibrand, I believe you should know," said Cesare gently, his voice faint, "I am sure there was a reason for your being here."

The German laughed, for he could think of no other response; he looked briefly in his master's eyes and knew that he expected something, some gesture or word, but he couldn't fathom what it was.

Cesare sighed and let his eyes rest on the dirt road that forked and twisted in front of them. _La Porta Aurelia_ was nearby; it would not be long, now, before they were met by Miguel's army to reclaim Roma... but a sense of foreboding had settled into both of the men, and Cesare found himself speaking nervously.

"I believe that I have been blessed," he said to the knight, "to have one such as you at my side."

Sibrand stopped his horse at the stables and nodded. "And I, to be in your service," he replied as they dismounted. He took his spaulders from the saddlebags of his horse and settled them on his shoulders, and then with a final smile at Cesare, put on his helm.

The two men entered Roma to find a small handful of armored guards waiting for them; Cesare's stomach turned as he looked them over.

"We did not think it was true," said one of them, his voice tinny inside his helm. "We did not think you would come, _Signor_ Borgia."

There were a few sparse echoes of the sentiment from the other guards, and Cesare narrowed his blue eyes, pushing through the crowd of guards and staring out into the city. "Of course I have come," he said. "Roma belongs to the Borgia! Does it not?"

He turned on his heel to look at them once again, and grimaced momentarily. He could only hope that Miguel's army would arrive soon- and that he had not exaggerated its size or ability. "And so, it follows: first, Roma; next, the peninsula." After a moment's glance at Sibrand, he tossed his dark hair from his eyes and approached him. "All of Italia shall be united, and you shall rule beside me," he finished with a pointed smirk.

Sibrand felt his face warm inside his helm, and then his eyes caught a flash of white; his body tensed as he stared at the blinding robes of the Assassin, who stood with four others mere feet away. Cesare turned once again and with staggering confidence, approached the group.

"Come to watch my triumph?" he asked with the faintest laugh. "Soon Micheletto and his army will arrive... but you shall be dead before then."

He turned away from the Assassins and waved to his guards to attack; Sibrand felt a trickle of sweat run down his face as he drew his pistol.

"_Insieme per la vittoria_!" cried the white-robed Assassin.

"_Vittoria agli Assassini_!" the others called in response, drawing their arms, and Sibrand's stomach seemed to do flips as Cesare caught him by the arm and yanked him nearly off of his feet.

He caught himself and followed Cesare to the outskirts of the ensuing battle; the Assassin screeched like a bird and from nowhere, two grey-uniformed Assassins descended upon the fray.

"Kill him!" the master cried, sheltering himself behind an abandoned market stand.

With an unearthly sound, the Apple of Eden activated, throwing out rings and spokes of white-gold light; one of the heavily-armored guards fell into the stand and it collapsed beneath the weight. Cesare swore under his breath and hurried to find a safe place. "Soon you will pass from this earth," he jeered, "and my dominions will be returned to me!"

Sibrand frowned. "_Cesare_," he hissed, and before he could look over his shoulder, there was someone at his back, someone much smaller than himself, and a knife was nestled against his throat. His heart quickened its pace as the hand shook remotely, trying to find its position, and he took the opportunity to grasp his attacker's arm.

It took much less effort than he had imagined to flip the Assassin onto the cobbled ground; the attacker rolled, pushing a thick red velvet cape over a slim shoulder, and narrowed brown eyes at him, and finally, with a start, he realized that it was a woman.

A moment passed, in which Sibrand was unsure whether or not he should feel ungentlemanly, and then his muscles regained their energy; a flash of red cape caught his eye and he gave chase, finally meeting his master in a shadowed _portico_.

"Rip the Assassin's throat out!" Cesare cried, and Sibrand heard the panic in his voice. "I want the Assassin name to die today!"

Sibrand took his master by the arm, shaking his head. "Cesare, it is useless," he said. "They are dying- the Assassins are too strong, we must regroup and-"

"Your uncle fought back!" Cesare continued, yanking his arm free from Sibrand's grasp. "Look what happened to him!"

"_Cesare_!" Sibrand growled, and his master rounded upon him; his stomach turned and his heart shuddered in his ears.

"My men will never fail me. They know what awaits them if they do," he snarled pointedly, turning back to watch the fray. "_Kill him_!"

A screech came from behind them and an Assassin pelted toward Sibrand. He drew his pistol and fired, then reloaded and fired again when the Assassin stopped. The body fell to the ground and Sibrand returned his firearm to his belt, then turned to look for Cesare.

Suddenly he was nowhere to be seen, and the gate was lowering; before him stood the woman who had attacked him moments earlier with an arm around the chest of a small, fast guard; she cut his throat and he fell to the cobblestones with blood pouring down his front..

Sibrand did not hesitate; he made a run for the gate and slid under it before its pointed base touched ground. There Cesare stood, his eyes wild and his grin manic as he watched easily a hundred men approach over the hillside.

"Throw down your arms, Cesare Borgia," said the Assassin from behind the gate.

Cesare looked him defiantly in the eye. "Micheletto's troops mass behind me," he said. "We will take back my city once and for all!"

The guards were dead, every one, and the Assassins had survived the fight; they gathered behind their grandmaster as he spoke again. "This is not your city anymore."

"By order of Pope Julius II," said a familiar voice, "I arrest you, Cesare Borgia, for the crimes of murder, betrayal... and incest."

Cesare spun to look at the speaker, and a sick shudder ran down his spine. Fabio Orsini had worked for the Borgia for years, after the Orsini family had buckled and lost the power they had once held; he had turned against the Borgia and attacked Miguel's army, and lived in exile with a warrant out for him- now, it seemed, he had entered the service of Pope Julius.

Sibrand swallowed thickly, and his horse caught his eye; he ran to it to retrieve his ammunition pouch, but his hands shook and the bullets fell from it onto the dusty ground.

"No! No!" Cesare cried as two bulky Papal Guards approached him, each taking him by an arm. "No, _no_! This is not how it ends!"

The two men began to drag him away, and were quickly joined by a third; Cesare struggled against them, his voice ragged as he shouted. "Chains will not hold me!" he choked. "I will not die by the hand of man!"

Hot tears burned in Sibrand's eyes as he fumbled in the dust to load his pistol; he raised it to fire at one of the guards, but it merely clicked pathetically and he was forced to throw it down before he was caught.

**V. Roma. 1503.**

The beer in Roma was of poor quality, but Sibrand found that the more he drank of it, the less he cared.

He clutched his stein tightly, his head bowed over it in the darkest corner of a noisy inn. His shoulders shook with dry sobs, his tears having long since run out.

He had failed. What was more, he had failed when Cesare had put such confidence in him, and now his master was held in a cell somewhere, at best.

It had been months since he had spent a day alone, and now it had been two weeks; he imagined he had spent easily nine tenths of it in this corner, drinking beer that was nothing like his memories (at least, as far as he could remember) and hearing snippets of conversation that wished his master ill treatment or death in prison.

The heavy wooden door opened and a shaft of light cut through the darkness of Sibrand's corner; he narrowed his eyes against the sunlight and ducked his head, and finally the damned light retreated.

He picked up his beer and drank deeply, and a trickle ran down from the corner of his mouth; he wiped it from his thick blond beard shadow and quickly took another drink.

A set of sickeningly cheerful footfalls approached, and he looked up to see the young barmaid smiling at him. She set a tankard of beer in front of him and leaned down to speak.

"That's from _Signor_ Coreglia," she said to him.

Sibrand merely grunted his thanks and finished his previous beer before starting on the next.

"I've been looking for you," said Miguel's familiar smooth voice. He sat himself across from Sibrand as he spoke. "I have had my men searching high and low... but it seems that still we searched too high."

With a dark laugh, Sibrand picked up his stein. "_Ja_, is this right, Miguel? Thank you for the beer... _und fick dich, Fotze_," he muttered under his breath as he drank from the metal vessel.

A whoop of delight, coupled with frustrated groans, rang out from the opposite side of the inn; Sibrand glanced over at the circle of men seated on the floor, throwing dice like children, and scowled.

"_Di nuovo_!" said a young man in the circle. "Fate smiles on me today!"

Miguel laughed faintly, and Sibrand turned back to him with blue eyes narrowed. "I suppose now is not the time for... _pleasantries_... is it?" asked the _condottiere_.

"_Nein_," Sibrand growled. "Why have you come to badger me? You enjoy bearing bad news... perhaps you have learned that Cesare has fallen ill or... or died, and you have come to-"

"Far from it," Miguel said irritably. "He is alive, and it appears that there is some chance he will be set free."

Sibrand grimaced. "So let him be. Bring me the news when he is free, that I will not interfere."

"_Basta_," grunted Miguel. "It is not so simple. If you will allow me to explain-"

"I doubt that I can stop you," Sibrand interjected, then took a long swallow of beer as Miguel glowered at him.

"Very well," Miguel sniffed. "I have it on good authority-"

"Always _this_," Sibrand snarled. "Speak on your own authority!"

Miguel opened his mouth to speak, and then clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, sighing out an irritable breath. "If Cesare is to be let out, it will be so that he can encourage his allies to revoke their land claims in and near Napoli."

Sibrand frowned. "It seems simple enough. For what am I required?"

"Protection, naturally, unless you are not confident in your abilities..." Miguel picked up his as yet untouched wine and glanced into it. "In essence, we must ensure that he arrives safely in Napoli... and with any luck, assist him in escaping from there."

"With or without doing as requested?" asked Sibrand into his beer.

Miguel looked up into Sibrand's blue eyes and frowned, eyeing him as if he were a child asking stupid questions. "Without," he said shortly.

Sibrand winced and drained the rest of his beer, then stood, untangling himself from the low bench. "I am with you, Miguel," he said, "but if need arises- and only if need arises- I will encourage him to do as instructed. His... _allies_... do not live off the land. They do not need it so much as life.." His knees shook as he stood on two feet, and he had to stabilize himself on the bar as he looked at Miguel. "And if this works as planned... I wish to be free of _you_."

**VI. Il Distretto Vaticano. 1503.**

Castel Sant'Angelo, that massively-constructed fortress, was not so welcoming now. Sibrand knew that his master was held in the dungeons there, perhaps chained to the filthy cold wall, as he had been years prior, or perhaps confined in one of the dirty cells, huddled in a moth-eaten blanket.

He had spent much time there in the past months and years, and it had come to mean comfort and pleasure to him; to wake beside his master in opulent velvet chambers inside the protection of those castle walls was but a memory now.

It seemed that much of his life was little more than memories, unpreserved, without posterity, crumbling around the edges. Fleeting. His small hometown in Bavaria, the Holy Land, and now his home, such as it was, in Roma... everything had changed so many times.

Sibrand's horse snorted uneasily beneath him and he ran a heavy hand through its thick blond mane. "_Steady_," he murmured, sliding from its back to stand on the cobbled ground.

A chestnut horse approached and Miguel nodded to him from its back.. "Good. You are here," he said.

"_Ja_. I am here," Sibrand replied. "Is he to be let out now?"

Miguel merely grunted, his dark eyes scanning the horizon as he dismounted his horse. The massive wooden doors of the _castello _had opened; it would not be long until Cesare was released. Miguel went to the stables to procure another horse, and Sibrand adjusted his uncomfortably large spaulders and tucked his helm under his arm, resting his other hand on his horse's shoulder.

A faint clamor rose up across the bridge and Sibrand's heart thumped hard in his breast; faintly, he could see a crowd of Cardinals parting for a procession of Pope Julius' guards, armed to the teeth.

Their approach was painfully slow, but finally, as they crossed the bridge, Sibrand saw Cesare, in the middle of a cluster of Brutes; his clothes were ripped and filthy, and his body clearly aching. As they neared, Sibrand saw that his face was bruised and that the guards held him roughly, practically throwing him into each step; his hand went immediately to his sword but Miguel stopped him, holding up a hand.

"_Wait_," he said. "You do not think clearly; they will kill him if you attack."

A chill spread through Sibrand's body and he let go the grip of his sword. He swallowed, suddenly feeling ill, and leaned feebly on his horse, watching Cesare stumble along the cobbles toward him.

"Put on your helm," Miguel hissed. "Some of them may recognize you."

Sibrand did as he was told, and the sounds of the world became muffled, but as they brought Cesare nearer still, he could hear the jeers of the citizens and it angered him.

Miguel nudged him forward. "Go. Retrieve him, and then we ride."

**VII. Tra Roma e Napoli. 1503.**

It seemed that they had ridden forever; by the time they stopped, the horses were exhausted and their riders saddle-sore.

They tied their horses beside a stream on the outskirts of a small town and Miguel entered the city gates to find a meal for them; Sibrand brushed the dust from the horses' wiry hair and Cesare sat by the water, quietly watching him until he stopped to allow the horses to drink.

"How are you?" Sibrand asked softly, sitting at Cesare's side on the bank of the stream.

Cesare sighed, avoiding Sibrand's eyes as he thumbed the holes in his tattered, filthy linen tunic. "I have... nothing," he said faintly, taking Sibrand's arm in his hand. His fingers worked at the buckles of the knight's bracer as he continued. "I fear that I am not myself any longer."

"Come, now," said Sibrand. "It's much too early for that. Still your brother-in-law lives in Navarre... still your friends and allies have land-"

"And I have nothing," Cesare repeated, slipping the heavy metal bracer off of Sibrand's arm. "I have friends in power... and I, myself, have lost what power I had. I am just as useless as a beggar. Give me your other arm."

Sibrand frowned. "Cesare, what has happened to you?"

"Everything had already happened," Cesare said simply. "It is only that it has... collected in my thoughts. Your arm, Sibrand. Give it to me."

Flinching slightly, Sibrand held out his arm, and Cesare went to work on the buckles of the gauntlet, then slid it off as he had the other one. "Master, I think you underestimate-"

"Be quiet, Sibrand, and lean nearer." Cesare's fingers found the fastening of Sibrand's cape and pulled it free from his shoulders. "I have missed you-"

"M-Master," Sibrand stammered, "it is-"

"Nightfall," purred Cesare. "It is nightfall, and soon the moon will set as well... we are alone, Sibrand... the farmers are all in their beds."

Sibrand swallowed and curled his hands around Cesare's, stilling them. "What of Miguel?"

Cesare laughed, and it was a strange ethereal sound that sent a shudder down Sibrand's spine. "He will return, but not before we have finished," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. "_Ah_. Here, in the shade of this tree... it is dark here..."

"I..." Sibrand watched as Cesare lay back in the shadow of the tree; his eyes glittered, perhaps wetly, in the waning moonlight, as he pulled at the lacing of his breeches.

"Come to me, Sibrand... _per favore_," Cesare purred, and Sibrand's breath caught in his throat; he could but nod as he approached, and Cesare tangled long fingers in his blond hair to pull him down for a long, hungry kiss.

Cesare shuddered as Sibrand's teeth grazed his split lip, and pulled him nearer with a demanding hand at the small of his back.

The two men kissed on the cool grass in the shade of the evergreen for what seemed an age, tongues sliding along teeth, fingers grasping desperately for the edges of clothing, and by the time they pulled apart, they were both hard, their breeches open and dripping erections pressed together. Sibrand lay between Cesare's legs, his hips arching against the other man's; Cesare dug his heels into the damp ground, clutching at Sibrand's back.

"Touch me," he pleaded. "I have not been touched in weeks, Sibrand- I-"

"_Don't speak_," Sibrand murmured, pressing a careful kiss to a bruise on his master's face; he straddled his leg and wrapped a strong, callused hand around both of their cocks, drawing a soft, low moan from Cesare's lips, which Sibrand silenced with his own.

Cesare squirmed beneath him as he moved gently, squeezing and stroking the two of them together, spreading wetness over hot, hard flesh; his back arched and his head tipped back against the ground, and he let out a quiet cry of pleasure which became louder as Sibrand's teeth sank into the base of his neck. "_Yes_..."

Sibrand groaned, bucking against Cesare's hips and biting down again, and with a rough gasp, Cesare came; Sibrand followed quickly and muffled a cry into Cesare's neck, then tilted his head to kiss him once again, to share stilted breath and a shaking moan.

"Cesare?"

Miguel's voice broke through the muffled panting of the men beneath the tree; Cesare started and pushed at Sibrand's shoulders, desperately looking around for the _condottiero_. "_Off_," he hissed, "_get off of me_-"

"_Hush_!" Sibrand rolled over to tuck himself into his breeches, cursing under his breath, and Cesare did the same before emerging from beneath the tree and leaving its shade.

"What is it, what do you want?" he snapped, his voice weak from lack of breath.

Miguel frowned, looking the other man over. "Why were you in the tree?"

Cesare waved an impatient hand at him. "_Nothing_. There was a fight, and we-"

"You are covered in pine needles," Miguel interrupted, reaching out to pull one from Cesare's tangled hair. "Why are you cov-"

"Why are you covered in stupid questions?" Sibrand barked, straightening his tunic as he approached.

Miguel narrowed his dark eyes at the German, and then looked at Cesare askance. "Very well," he muttered. "I have brought a meal and a jug of wine. The innkeeper himself tested it in my presence, I assure you it is uncorrupted."

**VIII. Napoli. 1504.**

He had warned him, he had begged him. He had cajoled and pleaded, and still Cesare had not listened; he refused to even consider asking his friends for the favor of their generosity.

It had been for nothing but vanity, and now Cesare had been taken away, shackled and thrown on a ship for Spain, for _La Mota_, where he was to be confined, presumably for life.

Now Sibrand was alone, lost in a city he had never seen- a rough city that spoke a rougher tongue, familiar only in speed and the occasional longer word. Miguel had gone back to Roma to rally his forces and Sibrand had stayed behind. There was no home for him in Roma.

There was no home for him anywhere, not now.

He knew that Miguel planned to come for him, but he hadn't any idea when; the man had concocted some vile scheme, certainly, and he was to be once again entangled with him.

"_Ehi, fratello, ca' staje a ffa'_?"

Sibrand winced at the intrusion of the harsh dialect upon his ears, coming back to himself somewhat in the midst of the market. "_Che_?"

"_Chistu è o' mio_!" snapped the voice, and Sibrand spun to look at the speaker; with some considerable relief, he realized that the challenge was not addressed to him, but to another man who was eyeing a Persian carpet in a stall.

He shouldered the leather bag in which he carried a jug of wine, and with a weary sigh, set off to find a place to lay his head.

**IX. Napoli. 1506.**

It had been so long.

With some hesitation, Sibrand had begun to give up hope; he had taken a job at a dairy in little more than an effort to distract himself, but now he found that he liked the work. It was a fair sight better than the danger in which he'd found himself on a regular basis, and he had come to know the people in town- as strange as they still seemed, they were no stranger than those living in Roma.

"_Ehi, ragazzo_:_ quanto costa questo_?" asked Sibrand, running his fingers along the graceful arcing limb of the longbow on the smith's market stall.

The boy looked at him and a shrewd smirk flitted over his face. "_Diciannov' ducati_," he said.

Sibrand frowned at him. "_Cchiù e' chello ca' vale. Sedici_."

"Meister Sibrand," said a voice behind him, and he started.

He turned on his heel and his heart thumped harder in his chest as he stared into the face of none other than Miguel.

"I've come for you," said the _condottiero_.

Sibrand frowned, picking up the fabric he'd bought to have tailored. "So you are the devil after all," he said. "Have you come to take my soul, or merely to burden it with ill news?"

Miguel lifted a dark eyebrow. "For the agreed-upon purpose. Are you not pleased?"

"After two and a half years, to see you?" Sibrand grimaced. "I think not."

With an exasperated grunt, Miguel changed tack. "Do you love Cesare, or do you not?" he growled.

Sibrand's knees weakened momentarily, his stomach doing flips. Finally, he brushed past the other man. "Come. We must leave this place... they listen well here."

The two men walked in silence through the market; Sibrand found that it was difficult to control his breathing. After some time they reached an inn; Sibrand opened the door and held it for Miguel, and then led him to a table in the corner.

"Speak, then. Have you a plan?" Sibrand asked.

Miguel nodded. "I have been to _La Mota_. I have seen him," he said, and Sibrand felt his stomach contort inside him with a pang of jealousy. "I have seen also the guards at _La Mota_, I have spoken with them at the inns... and I have made us a friend."

"Out with it," Sibrand snapped. "Who?"

"The Count of Medina del Campo. I believe that he will assist us in... freeing caged birds," Miguel said, smiling up at the barmaid who brought a jug of wine and two cups to the table.

Sibrand nodded and paid her, and she looked at the coins in her hand and kissed him on the cheek; Miguel narrowed his eyes at the other man.

"Who have you become here?" the _condottiero_ asked.

With a faint chuckle, Sibrand poured for Miguel and then for himself. "Someone different. I am always someone different."

**X. Medina del Campo. 1506.**

"You are very good at planning stupid things," Sibrand griped as he pulled at the sleeves of his too-small stolen uniform.

Miguel frowned. "_Quiet_. Your accent could betray us."

The halls of the prison were long and dark, and Sibrand could hear the faint squeaking of rodents near his feet as they wended their way through the labyrinthine fortress.

"Prepare yourself," Miguel murmured. "He did not look well when last I saw him."

Sibrand nodded to no one, and the two men lapsed into silence; suddenly from nowhere, a voice began whispering, as if straight into Sibrand's ear, faint seductive words: _touch_... _come_... _do you want_-

"Miguel- please, stop," he said. "That is... _extremely_ annoying."

The _condottiero_ cast an irritable glance over his shoulder. "Stop _what_?"

"_Whispering_!" Sibrand hissed. "You know what you do-"

_You will be healed_, the voice breathed into his mind. _Your arm_... _it troubles you come winter_..._ come_... _touch_...

"Come, now, Sibrand!" Miguel growled from several yards ahead; the voice dulled, and Sibrand swallowed thickly. "We are near!"

"_Ja_- I am... I am coming," he said, jogging to catch up to the other man.

Miguel slowed his pace as they approached the cell, and Sibrand walked beside him; he felt as if his heart had broken when he saw Cesare curled on a bed of straw on the floor, sickly pale and in a state somewhere between waking and sleep.

The _condottiero_ opened his mouth to speak, and then paused; he turned to Sibrand and gestured toward the cell. "Speak to him," he whispered.

Sibrand felt his throat tighten as he crouched in front of the door of Cesare's cell. "_Master_," he whispered, and the man did not stir. He drew in a deep breath. "Cesare, _ich bin hier_... _mein Liebe_," he added softly.

Cesare opened his eyes and they came to rest on Sibrand. "You came," he said, his voice creaking with disuse.

"_Ja_," Sibrand replied. "Of course."

Miguel glanced over his shoulder before depositing a leather pouch into the cell. "A servant awaits below for you," he said softly.

_Sibrand_... _come, touch_, the voice whispered once again, and Sibrand felt his stomach writhe. Try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that it came from Miguel, though it continued even while he spoke. Perhaps he was losing his mind. Nonetheless, as Miguel took a few backward steps from the cell, the voice followed him.

_Come, follow_... _touch_...

"I will meet you on the outside, my Lord... and Sibrand is here to see you safely down."


End file.
